Dreamland (8 page)

“Yes?” I said, and before the word even fully left my mouth he was leaning forward, one hand rising to brush back my hair, and kissing me.

We made out for thirty minutes in front of the Richmonds' mailbox, parked behind their blue Astrovan. There was something especially wicked about this setting. I realized as he struggled to unhook my bra that I didn't even know his whole name and this, suddenly, seemed wrong.

“What's your last name?” I said, coming up for air somewhere near his left ear.

“Biscoe,” he said, still working the clasp.

“Oh,” I said.

Just then a shadow passed over the car, and we both froze. It was Mr. Carnaby, from down the street, with his so-old-it-was-almost-dead Irish setter, out for a late night walk. They were about to go right by us.

Rogerson reached down next to my seat, grabbed the reclining lever, and in a split second we dropped quickly together out of sight,
whump.
I looked up into his face, those green eyes, and felt something all the way down to my toes.

“Rogerson Biscoe,” he said, right into my ear, and then I went under again.

At some point I saw on the little digital clock on the dash that it was past midnight, my curfew. “I have to go,” I said, buttoning my shirt so fast I forgot to put back on my bra, which I stuck in the pocket of my cheerleader jacket. One tumble off the pyramid and look how far I'd fallen.

“Go where?” he said. His lips were right on my cheek, salty and cool.

“Home.” I brushed my fingers through my hair. “I have to be in by midnight.”

“It's only five after,” he said.

“I know. I'm late.”

He leaned in and kissed me again, a good long one, then kept his hand on my knee as he drove up the street, turned around at the pool, and cut back toward my house.

He slowed down in front of my house, idling the engine.

“Well,” I said. “I'm going now.”

“So you said,” he replied.

I opened my door and got out, noticing the light next to my father's chair, by the window, was still on.

“Bye,” I said, walking around the front of the car, wondering if I'd ever see him again or if he just cruised the county, seducing cheerleaders on some eternal quest, obsessed with letter sweaters and pom-poms.

It was a full moon as I walked up my front steps, bra in my pocket. In less than seven hours my entire life had shifted and changed, starting with that man yelling Cass's name and ending here, as I listened to Rogerson Biscoe start his car and rumble slowly down the street. It was like it had all happened to someone else, but each thing, each kiss and thought, were strangely mine. He beeped the horn, once, and I turned back to watch as he hit the gas, taillights growing dimmer as he picked up speed over the bridge, to the highway.

Once inside, I washed my face, put on my pajamas, and crawled into bed, reaching under the mattress to pull out the dream journal. I flipped to the first page again, where I'd only written that one sentence, and looked at the blank lines ahead of me.

I wrote as if Cass would someday read it, telling her everything that had happened, from start to finish. Her name, my fall, Rogerson, the full moon, and what I'd done. When I was finished, I'd filled up four pages, my hand cramping as I shut the book and slid it back under my mattress, holding all my secrets in.

I turned out my light and just lay there, seeing Rogerson's glittering green eyes in my head. For once, I didn't think about dreamland and finding Cass there. And as I drifted off, I heard Stewart's bike brakes squealing as they came closer, and knew without looking that he was drifting down the slope of the yard, faster and faster, before ducking the clothesline one more time to ease into home, safe.

CHAPTER FIVE

Rogerson didn't get in touch with me the next day, or the day after, or even the day after that. The first two days I sulked, eating multiple Clark bars and lying on my bed studying the ceiling. I'd felt so different in just the short time I'd spent with him, like I'd finally stepped out of not only Cass's shadow but my own as well. It was a letdown to just be the old me again.

By day three, however, something else happened to make me forget about him, at least temporarily.

It was after school, one day when I didn't have practice, and I was sitting in the living room with the TV on, half watching it while half reading the two chapters I'd been assigned for Social Studies. I was flipping between a movie, an after-school special about the perils of steroid use, and MTV, when I somehow landed on the
Lamont Whipper Show.
The topic was “You're Too Fat to Be All That!” and at some point one woman began yelling, every other word bleeped out but just barely. I looked up at the noise, ready to change back to the steroid show, and saw my sister.

She was standing off to the side, by the edge of the audience, holding a clipboard up against her chest, a pen tucked behind her ear. The
Lamont Whipper Show
was famously low-budget, and you often could see different staff members standing around, watching and conferring—it added to the real TV, no-holds-barred image. Now the woman onstage, who was short and redheaded, was jabbing a finger in her sister's face, telling her off, and in the background Cass was watching intently, reaching back at one point to brush her hair away from her face.

I jumped out of my chair, sending my book flying, and leaned in closer to the TV, just so I could see her. She looked the same, although her hair might have been shorter. Her nails were painted and she was wearing a black turtleneck she'd borrowed from my closet and never returned. It was funny how I'd forgotten about that, until now.

“Caitlin?” I heard my mother from behind me: She was coming up the hallway. “Can you turn that down, please? All that yelling—”

And then she just stopped, in mid-sentence, and as I turned around I saw her hand fly to her mouth, her face shocked.

“Oh, my God,” she said in a low voice, coming closer and leaning into the TV, where we could still see Cass standing there, now jotting something on her clipboard and nodding as a big guy in headphones said something in her ear.

On-screen, the woman's sister was yelling, “If you'd treated him better he wouldn't have
come
looking for anything from me!” This was rebutted by a long series of beeps, punctuated only by the audience making
oooohhhhh
noises.

“It's her,” my mother said, and on-screen my sister smiled, laughing at something the guy next to her said, and hugged the clipboard back up to her chest. “Look at her. It's Cassandra.”

“I know,” I said.

“Look at that,” she said softly, kneeling down in front of the TV, her face just inches from it. Cass brushed her hair out of her face again, twisting one strand around a finger, and my mother's face crumpled.

“Oh, my God,” she said, and as I watched she reached out one hand and pressed it against the TV screen, running her own finger across Cass's face. Cass, unaware, half-smiled.

“Mom,” I said, and I was almost sorry now she'd seen it, she looked so pathetic crouched there, reaching out, with one of those hollow-eyed dolls—the Sunday School Teacher, apple and Bible in hand—watching from beside the magazine rack.

Just then the sisters disappeared from the screen, as did Cass, replaced by Lamont Whipper's big face. “Coming up next: Judy and Tamara's older sister, who has a secret about one of their husbands to share with them—and with us! Stay tuned!”

A Doublemint commercial came on but my mother remained crouched there, hand on the screen, as if she could still see Cass in front of her, close enough to touch.

“She's okay,” she said softly. I wasn't even sure she was talking to me. “She's alive.”

“Of course she is,” I said. “She's fine.”

She let her hand drop then, and sat back on her heels, wiping at her eyes. “I just am so glad ... she's okay. She's okay.”

We sat there and watched the rest of the show, catching glimpses of Cass again and again, but never for as long. The third sister confessed to affairs with both husbands, which resulted in a full-out brawl during which we got to see Adam, who bounded onstage to break things up. My mother seemed horrified by this kind of behavior that went against everything she believed in—but she kept her eyes glued to the set. I had a feeling the
Lamont Whipper Show
would now become regular viewing in our house.

When my father came home, she told him everything. He nodded, looking tired, then went to his study and shut the door. My mother watched him go, then walked to the kitchen and picked up the phone, drawing out the list of numbers they'd called that first day Cass was gone and finding the one for the show.

“Yes, I watched your program today,” she said in her best Junior League voice when someone answered, “and ... and what? Oh, yes, it was very good. Entertaining. But I'm trying to reach one of your staff members, and I was wondering ... oh, I understand. Of course. But could you give her a message, please? It's kind of important.”

My father came out of his study, took off his reading glasses, and tucked them in his front pocket. I thought about all those Yale bulletins stuck in his study drawer, and how he must feel to know Cass was working at a trash talk show, lining up angry confrontations and shocking confessions.

“Her name is Cassandra O'Koren,” my mother said, and now her voice didn't sound so strong. My father turned and watched her as she spoke, and I realized I was holding my breath. All I could see was my mother in front of the TV, one hand reaching out to touch Cass's face, any way—the only way—she could. “And please just tell her, would you, that her family loves and misses her, very much. Thank you.”

 

After my first night with him, I expected Rogerson to show up at another game, or a party, or even just drive past my house slowly enough to draw me to the window or outside. He didn't. First, I was surprised, then sad, then really, really pissed off. Rina said these phases were normal, even documented. She shared endless Clark bars with me, seeing me through what she called The Cycle of Recovery. I had just cleared Letting Go and Moving On when I saw him again.

The cheerleading squad was at the Senior Center for an event called Senior Days, which consisted of different community groups performing and teaching everything from ballroom dancing to lanyard making. We were on hand to do one of our dance routines, as well as fill in the gaps while other groups moved on and off the stage. It was ten in the morning and we'd had a big game the night before. I had a sore back from adjusting to my new position at the midpoint in the pyramid, Rina had a hangover, and Kelly Brandt and Chad had broken up—again—about seven hours earlier. Clearly, we were not at our best.

“I think they hate us,” Rina whispered to me as we did our shimmy-shake number to “My Girl,” with rows and rows of elderly people sitting in folding chairs in front of us. They were watching in a polite, if somewhat bored fashion: Some had their hands over their ears to block out our music. Kelly was sniffling, wiping her eyes during her handspring run, and Melinda Trudale had somehow missed our dance coach's advice to “tone things down a bit” and was doing her normal gyrating and hip-snapping right up front, much to the horror of a frail woman with an oxygen tank in the front row who was trying to knit some booties.

“I don't care,” I said to Rina, and this pretty much summed up everything I'd been feeling in the last week. I'd begun to wonder if I really had dreamed everything that had happened with Rogerson. That whole Friday before seemed unreal now. And it could have been, except for the fallout I was suffering for rejecting Mike Evans. Rina had only been upset with me for about five minutes, but Mike had been alternately glaring or sulking at me all week. Not that I cared that much, being that I was doing much of the same, feeling cheap and lost and unable to forget kissing Rogerson for all that time in his car, even as I tried to.

We finished our number and got a pattering of polite applause as we ran off the stage, yelling and high-kicking. A man with a beard, barefoot and carrying a pillow, took the stage after us.

I could see Stewart and Boo in the back of the room. They were teaching an art workshop involving fruit and personal experience in another part of the building. My mother was there too, with the Junior League, assembling snacks and punch in the back kitchen. She'd been so preoccupied catching every airing of the
Lamont Whipper Show—
which was on daily at eleven, three, and ten at night on various channels—she hadn't even noticed anything different about me this last week. She'd only seen Cass on one more show, but still she sat through all the catfights and cussing, waiting for another glimpse.

“Hello, everyone,” the man with the beard and pillow said softly into the microphone. “My name is Wade, and I want everyone to take a deep, cleansing breath, because for the next half hour, we're all going to get a little closer to ourselves.”

After Melinda, the knitting woman in the front row had obviously had enough of anyone getting close to themselves. She picked up her bag and her booties, and wheeled her oxygen tank right on out of there.

Wade, at the microphone, didn't seem to notice. “I'm an artist, a writer, a dancer, and a survivor, and I want to show you even the smallest movement can spur happiness and healing.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Rina said in a flat voice, reaching up to adjust her bra strap. “I'm going outside for a cigarette.”

“I'm right behind you,” Eliza Drake said, pulling her pack out of her purse.

“You coming?” Rina asked me.

“In a minute,” I said. Onstage, Wade had taken his pillow and sat down, folding his legs in the position I recognized from Boo's biweekly garden meditation. The crowd was thinning out, slowly, chairs rattling as people headed back to the snack area, where I could see my mother pouring punch into little blue cups.